


You want me now...

by Abecedary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, John's POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8287303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abecedary/pseuds/Abecedary
Summary: This is Complete, all 3 chapters are written. Will post them over the next 3 days.John has moved back into 221b after Mary. Finally something happens that forces John and Sherlock to confront whats between them. Told from John's PoV.  This is a short fic inspired by the Skunk Anansie song of the same name. I've been listening to it a lot and this just poured out of me on the train back from work one evening, so it was written mostly on the phone."You want me know, but thats not enough.Cos i want you for a life time.You say it now, but you talk too much.And i still want you for a life time"  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------





	1. The Wrong Turn

CHAPTER 1 ‘The Wrong Turn’

 

And suddenly they were off.   
Lestrade’s whistle pierced the nights cold November air as Sherlock’s long legs propelled him forward at a pace John couldn’t hope to match. Limp or no limp.  
The dark figure that had exited the warehouse in front of them had realised his mistake pretty quick and was running hell-for-leather towards the docks with half of the local constabulary charging along behind.   
John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s silhouette, his coat billowing wildly and saw him dart off to the side, down an unlit alley. A short-cut no doubt and John veered off too, at full speed… only to slam into something solid a few meters down. With a muffled ‘oomph’, he and it went flying into the pile of black-bagged rubbish along the right of the path. He was winded and disoriented at the abrupt end of the chase, only to hear a rasping breath from underneath him. 

“Jesus Sherlock, why d’you stop?” he wheezed, trying to force his eyes to see in the inky blackness.

“Wrong turn”

“Wrong turn?” he repeated incredulously…

“Wrong alley. This one’s a dead end”

“A dead end” John repeated dumbly, his chest heaving trying to catch his breath.

“It’s the next one that goes straight down to the waterfront…… Not this one”

“Not this one…” and john could hear Sherlock’s grin, and could feel his own threatening to break free.

“stop repeating me, John…”

“You took a wrong turn” he said again, and it broke into a laugh. The black shape of Sherlock, still half under him in the bin bags shuddered with what was obviously his own out-of-breath laughter and John collapsed backwards laughing loudly in harsh, ragged breaths. 

“Sherlock Holmes took a wrong turn” he announced, the laughter still evident in his voice and scrabbled around to get enough leverage to heave himself up out of the bags. 

He turned in the darkness to offer his hand to Sherlock. The long fingered, gloved hand gripped his and John pulled him up to standing. They could hear the chase still going on without them, rather further away than before. Once they were both upright again John released Sherlock’s hand ready to set off again but Sherlock didn’t let go of John’s. There was a brief pause where John dropped his head to look at the gloved hand still gripping his, just about visible from the street lamp at the end of the ally.

“Sher..”

The vague silhouette of Sherlock Holmes stepped closer to John and he felt warm breath close to his ear, a sharp stab of longing caught John off-guard as his heart suddenly lurched, thundering against his sternum. Sherlock brought his free hand up to John’s chin timidly and tilted John’s face up towards him. The gentle press of lips was ghostly really, asking, almost like he could be imagining it, like it could be denied later. He leant into the warmth, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s.

John felt himself tremble and Sherlock obviously felt it too because he shifted his hand to the back of John’s head to support him as the very tip of his tongue swept across Johns bottom lip asking for entry. John lifted the hand that wasn’t still enclosed by Sherlock’s, up into the fragile space between them and laid his palm flat against the narrow chest to steady himself. He could feel Sherlock’s heart beating under his finger tips, as hard and fast as his own.

The sirens were getting louder now, which probably meant the boys in blue had caught the bugger and were on the way back. Eventually Lestrade’s voice rang out across the street.

“Sherlock bloody Holmes, where the hell are you?” He yelled.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s, breaking the almost-kiss and breathed in deeply letting his hand fall from the back of his neck. He seemed to linger there on the verge of speaking, just for a moment before he dropped John’s hand and was off, striding out of the alley again.

“Here, Lestrade.” He bellowed in his best bored tone.

“What the hell happened to you?” Lestrade was obviously out of breath from the chase.

“Did you catch him?”

“Well, yeah. But you…”

“I left it to you, Lestrade. You should be pleased.”

Lestrade looked distinctly not pleased.

“Watson?” Sherlock called out.

“Yep, here.” John emerged from the darkness of the alley, attempting nonchalance when in fact his mind was racing as fast as his heart. Sherlock didn’t even turn to look at him, just marched towards the main road, arm out for a taxi. 

John ran the back of his hand over his mouth before following him, Lestrade raised his eyebrow but said nothing.

The taxi ride was agony. John ached to say something, anything, to reach out and touch Sherlock that whole silent journey back to 221b. But he didn’t. Instead he clamped his hands between his knees and snatched glimpses of Sherlock, silent and stiff in his seat, motionless, his body language at its most unapproachable. He didn’t speak when they got home either, just headed up the stairs and walked straight into his bedroom leaving John in the sitting room feeling shell-shocked. 

 

\-----------------

 

John could feel all his careful work falling apart. 

The dam that had successfully held back any concept of Sherlock and him being more than friends had ruptured and he was drowning.

John had fantasized about kissing Sherlock since that first night of running together through dark London streets 7 years ago. And kissing wasn’t all he had fantasised about. ‘Not Gay’ is technically accurate. John is not gay, but ‘straight’ isn’t exactly true either. 

In the army, these things have to be made clear. Fuzzy boundaries and sexual tension aren’t good. 

And John had actually been quite relieved when Sherlock made his ‘married to my work’ declaration that evening. Disappointed too, yes, but it freed John from it all. He was going to be living with this man and it meant, like when he was still on active service, that he could close that part of his mind off. 

John had always been aware that it was very different being attracted to someone when there was 0% chance. Absolutely none. He could continue to be attracted to the man, picture him in the shower, imagine that it was Sherlock’s hands pumping his cock, not his own but he could free himself from the real longing, the ‘hope’. 

Sherlock was beautiful and brilliant but most significantly; he was ‘married to his work’, his body was simply transport and that was how John had dealt with it. 

The hesitant press of lips in the alleyway had shattered that desperately needed certainty. It had made John’s chest ache, deep down in his core and that little glimmer of a ‘maybe’ had opened up. 

He had always understood, not consciously perhaps but he had known, that going down this path with Sherlock it would be different. It would be disastrous. The relatively easily quashed inappropriate crushes he had had on friends/colleagues previously, and the genuine relationships with both men and women in the past, even his marriage and its subsequent breakdown, as difficult as they had been at the time, would be ripples in a stream compared to the tsunami that Sherlock represented. 

The hope had been set free and he felt it fluttering wildly like a bird with broken wing, in this chest. Sherlock’s reaction reeked of regret and that made it all hurt that bit more.

John went to bed understanding the phrase ‘with a heavy heart’, it weighted him down in the bed and he spent the dark hours laying perfectly still, eyes open, carefully stitching the wound back together. Bricking up the dam. Sealing the hope off again, listening to Sherlock shuffle around in the sitting room below.

It was about 5am when he heard the door slam.

 

\----------------------

 

Sherlock wasn’t back by the time John got up.

Sherlock often wasn’t there when he woke up, this was nothing new but somehow it felt…off. He tried to convince himself it was just normal, he was off with Lestrade somewhere or at the hospital with Molly and the dead but the gnawing feeling wouldn’t leave. The idea that Sherlock couldn’t face him after what happened yesterday made him feel nauseous. He kept running it over and over in his head, it was definitely Sherlock who had kissed him, he hadn’t initiated it he was sure. But the more he ran over it, the less certain he was. 

He mooched about feeling distracted for most of the morning then about lunchtime John’s phone dinged.

‘SHERLOCK WITH YOU? CASE. 56 GALE ST, EC1.GL’

Okay, so Sherlock wasn’t with Greg. That’s fine, he was probably at the hospital.

‘MOLL. SHERLOCK WITH YOU?. JW’

‘NO, HAVEN’T SEEN HIM SINCE TUESDAY. MH’ 

Shit.

‘SHERLOCK. GREG HAS A CASE. 56 GALE ST. YOU OKAY?. JW’

He didn’t get a response. Worry.

By that evening there was still no sign of him. No reply to any of John’s texts. All the options seems bad. Sherlock was hurt. Sherlock didn’t want to face him. Sherlock was unable to reply. He felt sick.  
Despite never having any intention to act on it, John was perfectly aware of how he felt about Sherlock Holmes. He loved him. Loved him like a brother, like a friend. After ‘the fall’, he realised he loved him like they were two halves of the same coin, like the memory of him was the only thing keeping him alive during those months. He didn’t think he would survive in his wake. He loved him like he was the one person on this planet that he could never be without. And then he came back and he loved him more. He knew all this. He'd just never had to deal with it before. Not deal with what to do with it because ‘more’ was not an option.   
Yes it had hurt when he realised he had been lied to, and he was raging angry but he had come to terms with the fact that Sherlock had had no choice. Had done it for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and for him. It hurt even more that when he finally returned, he had encouraged John to marry Mary when all John wanted to do was go back to how they had been before…  
John brooded deep into the night, sleep didn’t happen and he was still in the living room as the sun streamed in through the gap in the curtains. He boiled the kettle but found no milk in the fridge so he headed down to Mrs Hudson.

“Hello, John. No milk?” She smiled. John tried to smile back but it faltered and Mrs Hudson’s expression turned to concern.

“Everything alright dear?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know where Sherlock is.” It felt oddly like a confession.

“Do you always know where he is?”

“No, well. He’s not answering his phone.”

Mrs Hudson put a cup of tea in front of him and looked sympathetic.

“He’ll show up, dear. He always does.”

“I know. I know… It’s just that… No, you’re right. I don’t know. I’m sorry. The man is allowed to leave the house without telling me. I’m being ridiculous” He scoffed, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Did something happen, John?” 

“I don’t know”.

“Did you have a fight, dear?”

“He kissed me.”

“OOoohh” Mrs Hudson clasped her hands together in such obvious glee John was momentarily thrown.

“No, no….” John held his hand up to indicate she shouldn’t be reacting like that. “He’s gone. I mean, he hasn’t spoken to me since, and now I don’t know where he is.” He added, more quietly. “I’m worried.”

“He’ll be back dear.” She looked at his tired face. “He will. Just give him time.”

“Yeah.” John said, unconvinced running his hand over his forehead roughly before pushing his chair back. “Thanks for the tea.”

He let another day pass with him pacing around the flat before he allowed himself to text Mycroft. He hated to do that, really did but… he didn’t have a choice. He had fallen asleep briefly the night before and am image of Sherlock tied to chair, a gun to his head had woken him and now he couldn’t get rid of the image.

‘DO YOU KNOW WHERE SHERLOCK IS? JW’

‘YES. M’

That could be comforting, or the opposite, he didn’t know.

‘ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME? JW’

‘NO. M’

Damn Mycroft.

‘IS HE SAFE? JW’

‘IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING. M’

What the hell did that mean? Is he safe as in, with a cup of tea on a sofa somewhere or was he safe like, in mortal danger but Mycroft had it in control?

 

\----------------------------


	2. I Came Back...

By the Thursday evening John was tired. Sherlock had been gone since the early hours of Sunday and all he’d managed to do was sit and stare at the walls, the last 24 hours. His mind swinging between replaying the press of Sherlock’s lips to his own, in intricate detail and a minute later attempting to burn the memory out of his own head. Reliving each puff of breath against his face, the feel of long fingers against the back of his scull followed inevitably by recalling the aftermath and trying to whitewash it away. Mostly though he found himself returning to the moment, the split second before Sherlock turned away from him and towards Lestrade. Thinking of all the things he could of said, could have done to change the outcome.

_Would anything have made a difference, Sherlock? If I had responded faster? Or grabbed your hand?_

And he was hungry. Eventually, about 4 that afternoon he forced himself out to the corner shop for something vaguely edible.

Tip toeing past Mr Hudson’s door not because she wouldn’t still hear him but it told her that he didn’t want to talk. She had popped in a few times to check John was alright but he didn’t really have anything to say so she would just make him a tea and head back down stairs without a word. It was damp outside, and chill. On his return he spotted the ominous black car parked opposite the flat but he didn’t bother going over. If Mycroft wanted him, he would have to come up stairs… Each of the 17 steps back up into the empty flat felt like an effort he might not be able to make.

When he shouldered open the door, Sherlock was lying draped across the sofa with a book in one hand. He could have only been there a maximum of ten minutes and looked a little too comfortable, an act maybe but nonetheless John’s heart jumped at the sight of his long dark form back home.

“Your back.”

“Your observational skills are to be admired, Watson”.

John pushed the door closed with his foot and slumped into his chair, coat still on and rested his head back against it. He held the cardboard triangle containing the unopened, grim cheese sandwich awkwardly in his lap.

“Your tired” Sherlock glanced towards him, his grey eyes flicking across John's dishevelled appearance.

“Your observational skills are to be admired, Holmes”

John sighed and let his eyes fall closed. Sherlock snorted and sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the sofa but didn’t say anything more. John could feel himself being watched.

“Where have you been?” he asked quietly.

“I… needed to think”

“And you can’t think here? Couldn’t tell me where you were? Even that you were safe?”

“I needed...”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Whatever.” John stood, with effort and moved toward the door. “I need to eat this shit sandwich" he held the offending item aloft "and go to bed. Gosh, maybe I’ll even sleep now I know you’re not being held hostage in some basement somewhere or hurt, or in danger. Or that you might never be coming back. Instead of laying awake terrified that you might need my help, need me.” He let out a bitter snort. “I was at Mycroft’s” Sherlock said quietly. “That’s great Sherlock.“ Despite the somewhat unexpected apologetic tone, John just couldn’t handle the conversation right now. He was too angry, too relieved.

 

\--------------

 

The next morning John woke to the smell of burnt toast.

Really burnt toast.

Actually he was hoping it was toast, and not the sofa, or the kitchen table that was alight. He stumbled out of bed to find Sherlock wafting a tea towel around the sitting room with all the windows open. The smoke was thick and had collected just above John’s head in the high ceilinged flat. Sherlock’s dark curls were in the thick of it.

“Hope that was toast” John smiled, as he fetched his own tea towel out of the drawer and began wafting towards the window.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes” John said, without any accusation.

“that implies that you slept.”

“I did”.

“Because I’m home?”

“Do you really need to ask that?” John moved into the kitchen to see what was left of the loaf. A loaf, he noted, that wasn’t there last night and meant that the domestic duty-adverse Sherlock Holmes had been to the shops. He smiled again and filled the kettle, examining the charred remains of numerous slices of bread abandoned on the worktop (next to 2 AA batteries, presumably from the smoke alarm). “Even if I hadn’t told you last night, surely you could have deduced it.”

Sherlock threw his tea towel into the kitchen, deciding nothing else could be done and picked up the journal of tropical medicine off the table flopping down on the sofa. John folded it neatly back into the draw. A few minutes later he appeared with a plate of buttered toast and two cups of tea.

“You were at Mycroft’s?” Sherlock reached for a piece of golden brown (not black) toast and nodded, if John hadn’t known better he would have thought it was a little guiltily.

“You could have told me, just a word to let me know…” The accidental reference to his 2 year absence wasn’t missed by either man.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something just as his phone ‘dinged’, he looked at John before he picked it up. Asking permission to interrupt this conversation. John just closed his eyes.

‘CASE. NORTH END, REGENTS PARK. GL’

“Where are we going?” John asked as they headed out the door.

 

\-------------------

 

Chinese had been picked up on the way back to the flat and Sherlock and John sat on the floor partly watching Attenborough’s Life of Plants, a mass of half empty cartons strewn around them. John tried desperately to keep his eyes off Sherlock’s long fingers using the chopsticks (effortlessly). His tongue just visible, as he bent his head down to hook the noodles into his mouth. He tried instead to focus on the footage of a seed unfurling on the screen in front of him to no avail. This was exactly what he had been worried about, it was all consuming. This want. This need.

He lay his plate down besides him, stretched his legs out in front and leant back against the sofa. He took a deep breath and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably sensing what was coming.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes, John?” John shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“What happened… you know, in the Alley… I..”

“I made a mistake.” John’s eyes snapped up involuntarily, he suddenly felt like someone had booted him in the chest.

“A mistake?” he squeaked, higher than he intended.

“An error. Caught up in the moment. Adrenalin ” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again”.

“oh”.

He was winded. A lump had formed at the back of his throat that was threatening to force something out, a sob? A whimper? He attempted a cough to disguise whatever it was. He just needed to get away from Sherlock's gaze, collect himself, just for a moment. He clambered to his feet and staggered towards the kitchen, to fill a glass of water. With a shaky hand. Sherlock watched him go. John braced himself against the counter and hung his head. He didn't even bring the glass to his lips, it just hovered there a few inches above the counter his knuckles turning white around it.

When he finally turned, Sherlock looked unsure, uncertain. Like he was about to say something and then it was gone. He turned back to the telly. Mushrooms were billowing across a dead tree-trunk, the sped up footage seems to throb on the screen.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was smaller than he meant it to be. “Sherlock. Really? You… I thought maybe… “

“Kissing a straight man, my _friend_ , surrounded by bin bags after making a navigational error wasn’t my finest moment”.

“Straight man…” John trailed.

Sherlock’s nonchalance was faltering, it flickered across his face.

Uncharacteristically clumsily, he got to his feet and walked towards where John was hunched against the countertop.

“I’m sorry John…. so sorry. I didn’t mean to.. it won’t happen again.” He was standing closer than necessary, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked imploringly at John.

It was agony. The cavity that normally held John’s beating heart, his breathing lungs, was constricting. It wouldn’t let the air in or the blood flow. And all he could do was look at the man he yearned for… It struck him then that he probably couldn’t reverse what had happened. The strength he had had was irrevocably shattered and he was never going to go back to the way he was before. When he could deal with this…

“Sherlock, I can’t… “ John lowered the hovering glass to the counter and it stuttered slightly as he let go.

“John you can, please…” Sherlock grabbed his now free hand. “You can, please. Don’t leave…” Sherlock didn’t look at him, just gripped his hand like his life depended on it. John looked at his small, calloused hand held between Sherlock’s larger, paler ones.

“Leave?”

“Don’t leave…me”

“…. Leave you?” he looked up trying to catch the taller mans eye...

“no, please… I couldn’t bare... I can’t….” John tentatively moved his other hand off the counter and tipped Sherlock’s chin up so he could see his face, his eyes but he refused to look at John directly. A single tear streaked its way down his pale face.

“Sherlock?” John’s mind was running on empty… “I’m, I’m not leaving… I couldn’t.” He took a shaky breath. “Not unless you wanted me to…”

“I can’t lose you again, John” Sherlock locked eyes with him this time. Fierce and hard. “I’ve lost you too many times already…”

He was holding John hostage with the icy blue.

“Mary?” John asked, a little taken aback that she was being mentioned here…now. Sherlock swallowed hard but didn’t break eye contact…

“I came back…” his voice broke… “and you still married her…”

He shut his eyes and another tear trailed down his cheek.

“oh God, Sherlock….” John leant forward slowly, as the teardrop trailed downwards, he caught it with his lips as it reached the curve of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes opened and there faces were so close… John pulled back.

“Sherlock, I’m… I don’t think I can go back to being friends...” John watched Sherlock’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I mean.. just friends…”

John took a deep breath.

“Was it really a mistake, Sherlock? Did you mean it? Did you, do you want more?”

Sherlock’s reply was a whisper, like he was willing John not to hear but they were so close John felt his answer though his flesh, warmth expanded into the territory previously held by fear as it sunk in.

“I meant it, John…”

“I love you” John was startled to hear himself say it allowed, he hadn’t meant to. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to him, and down again immediately.

“No, John!” He pushed away, a flash of anger catching John completely off guard. “You don’t understand!" he lurched, flinging his arm out to the side. "I can’t, John. I can’t do now. I can’t do this until you get bored or you find another woman, can’t have you now and not…. ”

Sherlock turned and all of a sudden the kitchen held just John. A few moments later the door to the flat slammed too.

“Don’t run away from me Sherlock!!!” John shouted at the empty space where Sherlock had been. He grabbed his phone.

DON’T RUN AWAY FROM ME SHERLOCK. JW

 

\-----------

 

_I came back, and you still married her…_

_I came back, and you still married her…_

John cleared away the empty plastic boxes that had held their dinner, rinsing them on auto-pilot and putting them into the recycling. At least Sherlock had eaten.

“He came back, and I still married her…” he informed the sink.

In John’s mind, Sherlock had come back and seemed oddly… ‘okay’ with Mary. He had assumed that once they had battled through the initial hurt and John forgave him then things would go back to how they were before he… left. Sherlock would interrupt John and Mary. It would break apart for all the reasons he’d never managed to hold a relationship together before… all the reasons being Sherlock. And yet… Sherlock stayed away. Gave them their space, whether John wanted it or not. I came back, and you still married her…

“You’re an idiot, John Watson.” This time he was telling the kettle.

 

WHY DIDN’T SHERLOCK SEE MARY FOR WHAT SHE WAS IMDEDIATLY? JW

HE DIDN’T CARE TO LOOK. M

WHY? JW

SHOW SOME MODICUM OF INSIGHT, DR WATSON. PLEASE. M

HE WANTED ME TO MARRY HER. JW

YES. AND NO. M

DO YOU EVER GIVE A STRAIGHT ANSWER? I’M ASKING FOR HELP HERE, MYCROFT. IF THERE WAS ANY OTHER PERSON I COULD TURN TO, BELIEVE ME, I WOULD. JW

THESE ARE NOT MY QUESTIONS TO ANSWER, DR WATSON. I CAN TELL YOU ONE THING. INEXPLICABLY, MY BROTHER HAS SEEN FIT TO DISCARD HIS OWN HAPPINESS IN FAVOUR OF YOURS. MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WILL. M

 

 

\---------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed part 2, Chapter 3 tomorrow. xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is two days late! I've been sick as a dog (off work) and my computer is at my workshop so i haven't had access to it!!!

It was about 2am when John heard Sherlock come in downstairs, his tread was noticeably heavy on the stairs and he paused outside the door before finally opening it.

John was in the kitchen, he shifted uncomfortably, his body complaining about the length of time he’d been standing still. He turned to face Sherlock.

“Don’t think that I… I mean, there won’t be…” John smacked his hand down on the table in frustration. He had practised this but the words seemed just out of his grasp. “Sherlock, there wont ever be anyone else…”

Sherlock was standing stock still.

“I’ve never felt shame or guilt like I did during that first dance with Mary.” 

Sherlock let go of the door handle and stepped forward.

“It should have been the first day of the rest of a long life with the woman I was holding and yet, all I could think was that it should have been you I had my arms around, you I should have been marrying…” John dropped his head. He’d never admitted that out loud before.

 

“John… “ 

Sherlock strode forward and extended his hand to him, pulling John towards him, putting his other arm around his back he buried his face in the space between John’s neck and shoulder. It was obviously raining outside because Sherlock’s curls were damp against Johns skin.

When Sherlock lifted his head, John turned slightly and flicked the switch on the kettle. It began to spark into life, rumbling. 

“Your soaking wet” John smiled.

Sherlock looked down, as if just noticing for the first time.

“So I am.”

“Go dry off, you’ll catch a cold” John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s lips.

“I’m going to resist explaining to you that that’s not how ‘colds’ work, despite the name….” Sherlock said as he let go of John and headed out of the kitchen. John smiled at his back, they had had that conversation before.

“I’ll make tea”

 

\-------------------------

 

Sherlock returned dry, in an old t-shirt and his loose pyjama bottoms. Curls ruffled from a run in with the towel. 

John was sat on the sofa, his head resting back and eyes closed holding his still steaming tea. Sherlock sat down opposite him, on the edge of the coffee table. His long legs and low position making him resemble a daddy long legs, knees up considerably higher than his hips. He ducked his head, closed his eyes and reached out a hand into the space between them. John took the outstretched hand in his and traced the lines that crisscrossed its palm with his shorter fingers. The silvery scar that ran dissecting the all the other lines.

“Are you still ‘married to your work’, Sherlock?”

“Yes” He tightened his fingers around John’s. “But you are the most vital part of it… Its not worth doing without you“.

So this was it then, now or never John Watson. 

Not letting go of his hand John put his tea down and left the safety of the sofas edge behind him and shuffled forward on his knees until he was kneeling between Sherlock's thighs on the floor. He paused a moment, trying to keep his breathing steady he took a breath that was more shuddery than he had hoped it would be. 

He moved forward a little more and the width of his hips rested on Sherlock's inner thighs, forcing them a little wider. As Sherlock lifted his head, John slid his free hand up Sherlock's thigh coming to a stop at his hip bone. Still holding Sherlock's hand in his other he entwined their fingers and closed the space between them. In this position John was ever so slightly taller than the man in front of him. He ran the tip of his nose across Sherlock's cheek until it came to rest against his and their lips were a hair’s breadth apart. Sherlock's eyes were still closed and John could feel the short laboured breaths against his face. 

He paused there, waiting for Sherlock to give him some kind of clue, tell him this was okay….

He waited like that for what could have been an eternity... so close and yet not able to make the final move, his heart thundering in his chest. Needier than he had ever let himself be before.

Eventually, Sherlock's consent was so minute anyone who wasn't as hyper-aware as John was in that moment, could have missed it. Sherlock's lips twitched against Johns and his nose pressed against his a fraction more and that was all John needed.

He pressed his lips against Sherlock's, still lightly but there was no mistaking this. Sherlock's eyes opened momentarily, John could feel the flutter of his eyelashes against his skin. And then Sherlock was kissing him back and John’s lips parted the tiniest fraction and Sherlock's tongue was hovering at his lips. 

John’s mind returned to the moment in the ally, that first ghostly press of lips and the feel of Sherlock's tongue, this same tongue, against his lips then, just before... well it wasn't going to happen this time. 

John parted his lips and let his own tongue run along Sherlock's upper lip. The tentative want, the slow burn in John’s soul ignited into full blown need at the touch and he forced his way into the heat of Sherlock's mouth. The moan that welled up deep in the man in front of him and escaped into the air around them broke the fragility of the moment and Sherlock's free hand shot up John’s back and gripped onto his t-shirt in the centre of his back forcing him against chest. John didn't need to be told twice. He let go of Sherlock's hand and laced both his arms around the narrow waist, shunting Sherlock forward against him. The kiss turned messy, it was desperate. It was heaven. Tongue against tongue, when Sherlock ran his tip over the roof of John’s mouth, just behind his teeth, he couldn't repress the answering moan. He could feel the heat pooling deep down in his groin, hot and hard and needy.

Sherlock's hands migrated to the back of his head, gripping the short hair and John’s hand slid down to where Sherlock's t-shirt had lifted up at the small of his back. He let his fingers creep under and whisper across the skin underneath. As his hands rose higher he could feel the lattice work of scar tissue crossing the perfect back from their time apart, he could feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's laboured breathing against his chest. The whimpering noise he was hearing could have been from either of them. 

He broke the kiss and moved his lips to Sherlock's jaw and let his teeth just graze the skin there, the moan he heard this time was definitely from Sherlock as he felt it well up under his lips. Sherlock's head fell back, revealing the perfect white column of his neck. John understood and licked his way down to just near Sherlock's bobbing Adam's apple. Sinking his mouth around the soft flesh to the side and sucking, hard. He was going to mark him, claim him. Sherlock's mouth had clearly fallen open because the volume of his ragged breathy moans had increased.

"Mine" John whispered against the newly purple flesh under his lips, he lapped at it soothingly before moving down to find another tender spot to abuse. His hands migrated of their own accord up under Sherlock's t-shirt across his back. Sherlock arched into the touch exposing more of his throat to John. The weight of the lithe body arching back over the coffee table was forcing John’s now throbbing erection against the edge of the table painfully.

"John.." 

John’s hands had reached just under Sherlock's startlingly prominent shoulder blades, circling one arm around his upper back to stop him falling back, his other hand wandered around over the ribs at his side. Palm flat against the flesh underneath, he ran the hand across the smooth milky flesh of Sherlock's pectorals feeling his nipples harden against his palm as he travelled across.

"Jesus, Sherlock..." he swallowed.

John pulled the willowy creature back up right and moved his lips back the now openly groaning mouth, claiming it again. This was a much harder kiss than the last one. John’s teeth hit against Sherlock's and he huffed out something that could have been a 'sorry' but carried on.

John could feel Sherlock's long fingers across his back through his now abominably too thick jumper. Sherlock broke the kiss. 

"John.."

When their eyes met, something akin to a whine escaped John’s lips as he took in the dishevelled vision in front of him. Sherlock's eyes were on him in a way he had never experienced before. He was looking into him. Not like when he was deducing, when he was reading clues to tell him information... this was deeper than that. It made something previously underused swell under John’s ribs it ached in a way that he hadn't ever felt before.

"John... I need..." Sherlock pleaded.

John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder making a quick assessment of the value of what was currently strewn across the coffee table. 

Nothing that can’t either be replaced if broken or cleaned up later... 

John let go of Sherlock who moaned his protest, as John reached around him and with one sweeping motion cleared everything off the low table onto the carpet. The crashing sound was muffled by the bloody rushing his ears and Sherlock barely seemed to notice either.

"John, please..." Sherlock breathed against his shoulder as he straightened up.

"I know, beautiful, I know.." he reached behind himself and grabbed onto the throw covering the sofa he had started out on. Tossing it, and the few cushions that fell too, behind Sherlock onto the newly cleared space behind him. 

Sherlock shunted his hips forward and for the first time John felt the throbbing shape of Sherlock's need against his hip. He swallowed harshly and rolled his hip into it receiving a deep guttural moan from Sherlock. 

"Shit... Sherlock you’re... just, Jesus…”

John repositioned himself between Sherlock's now quivering thighs and looped his arms around his back.

"Sherlock..." Sherlock looked at him, his eyes smouldering with a need John felt was like looking into a mirror. He carefully looped his fingers under the front of Sherlock's shirt and raised his eyebrows. Sherlock released his grip on John’s jumper lifted his arms in permission and John hauled the material over Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock leant back into John’s arms and John laid him back on the rumpled mess of cloth behind him. He stretched his arms out to either side, and John, still kneeling between Sherlock's knees, felt his breath hitch in his throat.

"My god you’re beautiful..." 

“Take that bloody jumper off, John…”

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed but there was a small smile tugging at his kiss bruised lips. John answered with his own breathy chuckle and reached behind him to tug both the offending jumper and his t-shirt off over his head. At the sound they made hitting the floor, Sherlock opened his eyes and took the sight of John in. 

John leant forward and bracing himself with an hand on either side of the narrow torso, bent his head to kiss the soft skin on Sherlock’s nearly hairless belly. He kissed and nuzzled his way up until he could feel Sherlock’s need pressing against his chest. Pushing himself back upright he took the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms in his hands.

“Lift up…”

Sherlock dutifully lifted his hips and John eased them down his thighs. Sherlock’s cock sprang free, dark and hard. John buried his nose in the dark curls and breathed in deeply.

"God, how long have i wanted to do this… to breath you in?"

He raised his head to find that Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching him intently.

He pressed his mouth to the base of Sherlock’s cock and ran his tongue up the velvet skin. Sherlock threw his head back and John licked the bead of pre come from his slit. 

John shuffled backwards, giving him room to pull the pyjama bottoms completely down to Sherlock’s ankles. He quickly undid his own belt and pushed his trousers and boxers off, standing to throw them to the side. The relief of setting himself free from the confines of his clothing was delicious and as he stood looking down on a now completely naked Sherlock Holmes he absently stroked himself a few times. 

“John… olive oil will do...” Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen.

It took John a few moments to understand but quickly headed for the kitchen and grabbed the bottle from the counter.

“Not the one on the counter!” Sherlock called out. “Its got human uri… i was using it for something. There’s an unopened one…”

“You used the olive oil? Sherlock!” 

 

When John returned to the sitting room Sherlock had shifted the makeshift bed off the coffee table and onto the floor. He was strewn across the cushions, dark curls and long pale limbs and John paused to look down at him. He felt a sharp thrill looking at the smattering of dark marks he had left up the side of his pale neck.

John sunk to his knees at Sherlock’s feet a bowed his head to kiss the sole of the mans feet. He planted a soft kiss on the pad of Sherlock’s big toe and let his tongue snake out to run up over the toe. Sherlock opened his eyes.

“Feet, John?” Sherlock’s raised eyebrow was evident in his tone.

“Yours, yes..” He said, before sucking the whole big toe into his mouth. Sherlock gasped as John continued to suck, circling it with his tongue and teeth. When he eventually let it go with a wet ‘pop’ and he crawled forward along the long legs kissing as he went until he reached the now throbbing, leaking head of Sherlock’s need.

“Feet, Sherlock?” He smiled as he engulfed the hot, swollen head of his, obviously interested, cock in his mouth.

Sherlock hissed, and his hips jerked up into the heat of John’s mouth.

This was the first real taste of Sherlock John had had and it was bliss. Bitter and salty, and something else entirely. He ran his tongue up over the sensitive underside and pushed gently into the slit at the top. Sherlock groaned above him.

“John, stop, stop….”

John smiled and let his cock fall from his lip as he looked up to see Sherlock’s pained expression. His cheeks were flushed and the blue of his eyes had all but dissolved into the black of his pupils.

John crawled up Sherlock’s body pressing his lips to his navel, his lowest rib on the left side, his sternum. Sucking a nipple into his mouth and marvelling as it hardened against his lips. Putting one leg between Sherlock’s and a hand down on either side of his head, hovering over him. Sherlock brought his hands up to run up the taut muscle of John’s arms. He twisted his head to kiss the inside of John’s forearm.

When his eyes returned to John’s he looked slightly hesitant.

“John… “

“Anything Sherlock…”

“John… I need you.”

John lowered himself down to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s lips .

“You have me. And God, Sherlock, I need you too.”

With that he lowered himself down to his elbows pressing his full body against Sherlock’s. The touch of skin against his own aching erection made his breath catch. He rutted against the body beneath him and was forced to close his eyes as a wave of desire washed over him. Sherlock shifted under him and brought their cocks together between them as John continued to pulse against him. 

“Uhnn..” Was about all John could get out as Sherlock looped his spider long legs around his back increasing the friction. Too much.

John pushed himself up back onto his knees and cupped Sherlock’s balls in his hand, running his fingers over them. He reached behind him for the Oil.

He poured a small amount into the dip of Sherlock’s slightly concave belly and ran the fingers of his right hand through the golden liquid, coating his fingers.

He ran his fingers back over Sherlock’s balls and down between his legs. Trailing his stubby finger nails across the sensitive skin of his perineum. Sherlock squirmed beneath him, his whimpering taking on a pleading tone until the tip of John’s index finger swirled over his entrance. The shudder that travelled through Sherlock was visible across his skin and John bent down to kiss his cock as he pushed an inch inside.

“Yes, jo..hn…”

When he withdrew his finger to recoat it in oil Sherlock locked eyes with him and held his gaze when he went back and push the finger in all the way. As he began to move Sherlock lifted his knees to allow him better access. He moved gently, gliding in and out, allowing Sherlock’s body to adjust. John curled his finger up towards where he knew his sweet spot to be.

“Oh…”

“Okay?”

“God yes. More.”

John pushed in another finger and tried to alternate a stretching, scissoring motion and sweeping across the sensitive spot.

Sherlock was positively purring under him, lifting his hips up with each stroke. John’s cock was leaking all across the inside of the milky thighs beneath him.

“John, i’m ready. Please…. “

John added a third finger.

“John.” Sherlock squirmed. “John, i need to feel you inside me, now. God…..please! …..please….” 

The begging tone in his voice made Johns cock leap up, throbbing and desperate. He withdrew his fingers and grabbed the bottle next to him and dribbled the oil over it. He was almost afraid to touch to coat himself properly in case he succumbed there and then. Gingerly he ran his fingers lightly over himself and hooked Sherlock's knees around his waist. 

He positioned himself against Sherlock's entrance and looked up into the ice blue eyes that were looking right at him.

Sherlock nodded and John gripped his hips, holding eye contact and pushed himself into the sweet, melting heat of Sherlock’s body.

They groaned together, low and ragged. John pushed himself deep, sheathed himself in the man he had wanted for so long. The man he should have been with everyday for the past 7 years. He dropped his head onto Sherlock’s chest and pulled out slightly before thrusting back in harder this time.

“God John. Yes….”

He pulled out again, further this time. Ramming himself back inside.

“Fuck me John. Make me yours…”

He began to pump his hips, gripping Sherlock’s hips a little harder. Angling himself towards where Sherlock needed.

“Oh god!” Sherlock was trying to buck against him now.

“Shit, Sherlock…. Nugh….”

“Yes John. Own me. “

“Christ…. Oh, Nugh…”

He had tried to hold back but he found himself pumping hard into the tight hole gripping Sherlock hard enough to bruise.

“You’re mine…...mine” He managed to huff between breaths.

“Yes.” 

“Mine.”

“Yes…”

“This isn’t going… to…. ungh….” John huffed out. “Last too long…..”

“Yes…” Sherlock moaned into him.

John reached around and took Sherlock’s leaking, pulsing cock in his hand and began to pump him in time with his thrusts.

“Shit, yes…. yes…. yes….”

John felt Sherlock tense beneath him before he heard the deep howl, the walls around him clamping down on his already close cock drove him over the edge too. Hot ribbons of come streamed from Sherlock onto his belly and across John’s hand as John pumped his own seed deep into Sherlock. John’s mouth hung open wide but no sound came out.

John slumped forward, unable to hold himself up any longer, onto Sherlock’s sticky chest. Still breathing hard and vision blurred he felt Sherlock’s arms come around him and hold him close to his fluttering heart beat. He twisted, rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around him in turn. Breathing hard and deep, and in sync. As they shifted and John softened he slipped free from Sherlock’s body. When John finally opened his eyes they were nose to nose. 

“I love you, John Hamish Watson.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, his fingers travelled idly across his back. 

“I love you, you beautiful, brilliant man.”

John pulled sherlock against his chest harder and pressed his lips to the soft skin. 

“Tell me this is forever, John.”

“This is forever.” He kissed the space between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “For a lifetime and more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Ax

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Part 2 tomorrow.
> 
> Comments always welcome! x


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